


Chapter One: How To Fail Yourself

by thewhalesaid



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - War, M/M, Mentions of PTSD, very very brief mentions of underage sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-21
Updated: 2012-10-23
Packaged: 2017-11-16 18:13:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/542373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewhalesaid/pseuds/thewhalesaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It doesn’t matter, because Fear is moving, has changed targets, and Dean’s damned if he’s coming in to second place. Not for this.</i> </p><p>Castiel's a war vet, recently returned with instructions from a man in his unit to crash at his friend Bobby Singer's. The PTSD, he expects. What he doesn't, is finding solace in John's teenaged son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Here](http://unicornempire.tumblr.com/post/33861313294/i-like-the-idea-of-cas-as-some-kind-of-war-vet) is the link to the original artwork that inspired this, and [this](http://professeurcharlesxavier.tumblr.com/post/34018716274/unicornempire-i-like-the-idea-of-cas-as-some) is the reblog. I'm a sucker for emotionally abusive prompts, and the artwork is prime.
> 
> Disclaimer : I've never experienced PTSD, and any interpretation done in this fic is just that -- an interpretation.

It starts on accident.  
  
Dean Winchester does everything on purpose, there are no accidents. Everything holds intent. is purposeful.  
  
But he insists that it's an accident.  
  
The steps are willingly taken, one after another, towards the room. So is his arm, reaching forward, hand wrapping around the doorknob, feet bringing him to shuffle into the kitchen. Completely intentional.  
  
The accident is that he'd overheard the other man in the first place.  
  
He can't help himself, once he's in the room, socks quiet over the tile floors. It's part of his instinct, after years of comforting Sammy until the wee hours of the morning, watching out for his little brother until the night shifts to a danger-free realm, and daylight pulls them both out of shadows. It's something about the small, whimpering noise, that makes Dean move with purpose, all over an accidental eavesdropping.  
  
He crosses the kitchen, silently, and opens the fridge. The man is sitting at the table, and if he notices Dean's presence, he's not acknowledging it. His head is bowed, dark hair adding to the shadows that don't so much contour the man's features, as they do hide them. Everything, hidden under darkness.  
  
But Dean knows the posture, knows the shake in his shoulders, the quiet, mumbled noises, and he knows that no amount of hiding will prove to be a worthwhile escape. It never is.  
  
So he pulls out a bottle of beer, just like he used to see John do, and doesn't think twice about grabbing a knife from the silverware drawer, popping it open with a small noise. The man doesn't move at this. Dean takes this as his cue, slipping the bottle to a few centimetres from the man's hand, and takes three hesitant steps back. He makes his way to his room quietly, without looking back.  
  
When he checks the kitchen the next morning, ready to throw together a breakfast burrito for Sam, he sees the bottle -- empty, in the pile of recycling.  
  
Dean knows he shouldn't smile, but he does.

* * *

He doesn't want to say that it becomes a _thing_ after that, because habit never did him well, but it does. Dean can't help it. Years of looking after Sammy, being raised with absent fathers and a shifting lifestyle. It'd been a futile effort, Dean believes, because even now, living with stability, living with Bobby, there are moments where Sammy gets shifty. And Dean can't have that.  
  
He's always looked over his little brother.  
  
This stranger, this man. With the scarred eyes, and more time spent with their father than they've had, he's no different. No matter how much Dean wants to resent him, as if his very presence is a threat to Dean's imaginary world of It's Fine's and We're Okays.  
  
He does. Threaten it, that is. But no matter how many times life has brought a metaphorical knife to Dean's throat, he refuses to turn the tables. He won't kick a man when he's down. Instead, Dean will hold out a hand, and prepare himself for the inevitable deceit.

It comes in the form of a beer, slid across a table. A hand placed on an arm, a blanket gathered to wrap around think, shaking shoulders. Pushing sweat-damp hair away from a cold forehead, and ignoring the scent of stomach bile and half-digested peas. Pulling covers around a writhing form, but never staying too long.  
  
Sometimes, a hand reaches out to grab him, hold him. Tries to slip its fingers in-between his own, but Dean always pulls away, and tries to ignore the shattered darkness in the blue eyes that follow him, until he's out of the room. He feels the, boring into the back of his head, and when he closes his eyes to sleep, they're still there.

* * *

It continues for a while -- long enough for the storm to hit, to rattle the windows and flood the flowerpots outside. He's glad Sammy put their bikes away, earlier, when Dean was too tired to do anything but stumble onto the couch. Even behind closed eyes, Dean can spot the flashes of lightning, feel the thunder roar through his bones.  
  
And then, underneath it all, underneath the loud, boisterous, antics of the Storm, the small whimper of terror.  
  
It crushes Dean, shatters the mirage of rain and lightning, brings silence to the room and then -- there it is again. Fear, he can hear it now. Cackling its way through the walls of the house, dancing its little dance, leaving a trail in its path. He can taste it, the taste of blood and dirt, Fear wedging its tongue between his own, biting at his lips and pressing fingers, hard enough to bruise, at his hips. He feels Fear overtake him, slide a cold hand, trail a long finger up his chest, wrap around the metal of the dog tags around his neck, pull --  
  
Dean falls out of bed faster than he can process what's going on, and he's out of the hallway before he realizes he's still not wearing a shirt.  
  
It doesn't matter, because Fear is moving, has changed targets, and Dean's damned if he's coming in to second place. Not for this.  
  
He slams open the door of the other room, simultaneous with the whip of thunder, and the words are falling out of his lips before he even makes it into the bed. " I'm sorry, shh. It's just me. " His words are hushed, soothing, the same tone he used to get when Sam had a fever, or there'd be videos of bombings on the television screen.  
  
He ignores the fact that they don't worry about shootings so much, not anymore, and instead, wills himself to the present; he reaches for the man, judging his warmth, pulling the body close to his chest without asking for permission. He can feel Fear, peeking into the room, and Dean squeezes his eyes shut, holding him even closer.  
  
" It's just me, it's okay, " he murmurs into dark hair, voice soft enough to be louder than the rain, more rattling than the thunder. " It's just me. " He doesn't know if this is reassuring, but it seems to help. At least, Castiel doesn't push him off -- he's not making any sign of recognition, though Dean chooses to ignore this in favor of trailing a hand down the man's back.  
  
He's wearing a worn, slate-coloured tank. There's a tattoo on his arm, that trails over his shoulder blades, disappearing under fabric. Dean focuses on this, instead of the fact that he's never noticed before. He doesn't much have the time to, though.  
  
Fear's hands now, on his back, face peeking over his shoulder to the man in Dean's arms, and Dean shrugs It off, glares into the open darkness of the night. " You're going to be okay. Cas, listen to me, " he whispers, lips brushing over scalp, generic-brand shampoo trailing into his nose, " You're strong. This is okay. "  
  
He stays like this, for the rest of the night. Stays until Castiel's breathing steadies in his arms, stays until a pair of arms wrap around his own waist, until dogtags tangle together and Fear turns away, scoffing at Dean in disgust.  
  
Dean doesn't care, though, because he's won. And with that thought in mind, he closes his eyes, presses a kiss to Cas's head, and falls into the arms of Sleep.

* * *

It happens, more times than he can count, after that. But every time, Dean is waiting, and Dean wins. Dean fights back with everything in him, taking every blow and reciprocating, because Fear can never reach Castiel. He won't let It.  
  
Dean should've known.  
  
Win too many battles, get a little cocky. Winning is weakness, losing is what makes a man strong.  
  
He should've fucking known.

* * *

If there's anything Dean's life has taught him, it's that there are no accidents. Only the purposeful trail of cause and effect.  
  
When Castiel shows up in the back barn of Bobby's property, restless and shaking and _scared_ , Dean doesn't even have the time to hate -- himself, Fear, the war, everything -- before the man is crumbling into his arms.  
  
He doesn't remember dragging Castiel inside, making sure their tumbled steps don't bring them crashing onto tools. He doesn't remember, until he's sitting on the floor, Castiel in his arms, talking and crying, and Dean's defenses are all up. It doesn't matter though, he can smell Fear on Castiel, he can taste the touch of the Monster, and it's all over Cas's body, over his clothes, his hair, in his features. Dean can taste It in his tears, when he leans over and kisses the salt away.  
  
There's still engine grease coating his face, and pretty soon, it mixes with the wetness of Castiel's.  
  
Dean doesn't think this was ever an accident, not until he finds himself reaching out for Castiel in the middle of the night, wrapping himself around the other man's naked body, pressing kisses into the scars, the tattoos, the stories, lining the man's back.  
  
He loses a lot of sleep over it, but the Monster never wins.


	2. Chapter 2

The thing about fear is that after a while, he begins to crave it.

He starts itching for it, in the moments where the room turns cold, but his spine doesn't shiver. Reaches for it, when he feels kilometres away ( over eleven thousand, in fact ), when he hears the shouts of familiar voices but is too distanced to recognize them. Tastes for it, when he's alone -- and feels the solidarity, seeping into his system

He knows he's not afraid, which is the problem; habituation is the problem.

Being afraid keeps you alive.

Being afraid means responding. Means having a cause behind an effect. Means awareness. Being afraid also means being cared for.

At first, he starts longing for fear, to compress and shove into the void of his mind -- just to have something there.

And then he craves it out of paranoia's sake. Four years at war does not disappear overnight. He needs it back into his life, or he's afraid he won't be afraid -- being unmade, unconditioned, is always a threat. Not being prepared, his mind acres behind when his body gets brought back.

Finally, presently, he's desperate for it, desperate for the feeling of fear, knows the real desire is for touch. Drinks it up, drags it towards him, shakes if he doesn't get it. A new quick fix: it comes in the form of Dean's hands on his shoulders, then down his arms, rubbing over his back. The trail of fingertips mapping out touch, a physical grounding, tracing at his scares, his stories.

Reminding Castiel that they exist.

Reminding him that he can't forget them. Persuading him that he doesn't.

He becomes desperate for this feeling of safety, that he starts going out of his way to create something to need protection _from_. After a while, Castiel can't tell if Danger's gripping at his ankles, or the corners of his mind anymore -- he just looks over his shoulder, in desperate touch for Fear.

* * *

And then Dean arrives. Dean always does. Dean, with his strong hold, but gentle touch, Dean, who seems as if he's born to do this -- protect another human being.

Castiel falls into his trap, long before he supposes it's established.

* * *

He can't help it. He knows there's taboo against it, and, though Castiel's always been one to follow the rules, he can't bring himself to care. Not when a simple caress ignites within him, or a simple mapping of his fingerstips to freckles manages not to become a tactical play.

He can't help it, not when his entire body, his core, is infested. He's infected, and he's aware of it. Infected beyond vaccination, for there are no antibiotics of the mind, not like this. No cure. He's a walking disease, not contagious, but his body a carrier for his slowly-wilting mind.

And then Dean, a tremendous burst of innocence, reeking purity from his very core, pores infused with clarity.

Nobody expects Dean Winchester to embody innocence, yet that's not what takes Castiel off guard.

What really does it, is how immune Dean is, to the rotting flesh that makes up the broken man in his bed.

* * *

He takes a shower, sees fire and red. The lifeless eyes of comrades, glimmerless smiles. He keeps his eyes open until he gets shampoo in them, just so he doesn't have to stare back.

* * *

He awakes with a cry, shaking, breath coming out in shuddered exhales, and Castiel can see, can taste, can smell the blood, covering his hands like a glued layer of paint. They're bloodied, holding the last remainder of _it_ , a gripping of a life slipping between his fingers.

He has Dean to thank for the fact that there's something more than stomach acid when he rushes to the bathroom and leans over the toilet.

He looks down, sweating and sickly, and his hands are pale, worn, used, but not red.

He washes them twice, just to be safe.

* * *

Above anything, Castiel wishes he were strong. This could all be fixed, if his spirit wasn't decay.

He doesn't pray for strength for his own sake -- Castiel knows a lost-cause when he sees one. Knows the taste of hopelessness, knows how it stirs in the bones.

He wants strength, for Dean's sake. This brightness of energy, a play button, pressed down constantly. Constantly moving manifestation of _go_ , of life, and innocence, white enough, bright enough, to fight back his demons. But demons are strong, Castiel should know, and he starts seeing the cracks in the armour. The purple, swollen bags beneath eyes so, so tired, the indentation of bone, because, what's one more skipped meal ? The tenseness in the body, even when they lay naked and sated.

But then there's the fierceness, the fire behind Dean's eyes. And Castiel lays back at night sometimes, with his arm wrapped around a warm body, brushing his fingers through soft hair, and prominent bones. He lays at night, and wonders to himself, what happens when those eyes break ?

Will the fire rage then ?

It will, he thinks, as he drifts off and mirrors freckles to stars in his mind, it will.

The fire will consume them all alive.

* * *

He hears Fear cackling, when his eyes trail over Dean's form from across the lot, half-submerged underneath an old car. Castiel can imagine the classic rock playing, from here.

Tastes Fear on his person, when he sits himself down, instead of stumbling over, to be soothed by words, and touch, and kisses. He'll be strong, for Dean.

Feels the touch of Fear, trailing over his body, grabbing at his dog tags, wrapping around the rosary, pulling at his shirt, his shoes, his belt.

Hears the low, taunting murmur in his ear, shivers with the words as they hit bone.

_He doesn't need you to protect him, you can't. He'll find someone new, someone better. Someone strong enough to fight his battles for him._

_Someone who won't let him down._

_Someone who isn't **afraid**._

* * *

He promised John he'd take care of his kids, back when his friend had handed him a piece of paper with the carefully-written address.

Castiel's not sure what protection means anymore. Does it mean reminding a boy to eat, and letting him have his own space ? Giving him a reason to do something he's good at -- taking care of someone weak. Giving a purpose. Relying on him, needing him, with an intensity that makes him shake.

Castiel apologizes to John, when he hands Dean the matches.

* * *

He watches Dean burn, consumed by his very own flame. It destroys everything in its path, Fear trembles, the Monsters try to run, but it's too quick.

It feeds on necessity. On everything its victims need, and it will never go out.

It eats at his broken, decayed infestation, turning around cells and atoms, burns him to a crisp. He doesn't know whether to scream or laugh, so he does both, because he's scared.

In the end, Castiel is barren, burnt, but he peeks open an eye and is met with a night sky of freckles, and the gentle reminders of his own past, trailing over his back.

He peeks open his eyes, and the fire has eaten all it can.

The fire burns away his disease, and leaves him there instead.

* * *

> Epilogue :

The Monsters are gone. The Fire destroys itself. The war continues, eleven thousand kilometres away.

The only threat that remains, is Castiel, is Dean. They promise to be each other's threat.

Fear keeps them alive, but they know Fear. And they can fight it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There might be a third part. It might be better than this one was. xo.


End file.
